


Ring Out the Old, Ring In the New

by rum4life



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Bastogne, Canon Era, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New Year's Eve, Non-Linear Narrative, Tumblr Prompt, nix searches dick out on new years eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8096551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rum4life/pseuds/rum4life
Summary: Malarkey cranes his neck to look up at Nixon upside down. “Anything we can help you with, sir? Or you just makin’ a social call?”Nixon clears his throat, feeling uncomfortable for some reason. “Uh- yeah. You seen the XO?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ALastDanceAtDawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALastDanceAtDawn/gifts).



> [Tumblr prompt:](http://whystherumgong.tumblr.com/post/148359093220/thatsnotmozarts-replied-to-your-post-i-need-to) did you know that in bastogne, nix searched out dick so he could see him at midnight on new years? true story, and also adorable (via [ALastDanceAtDawn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ALastDanceAtDawn)/[thatsnotmozarts](http://thatsnotmozarts.tumblr.com) on tumblr)
> 
> Betaed by the always reliable [colormesherlocked](http://archiveofourown.org/users/colormesherlocked/pseuds/colormesherlocked).

Nixon has never really taken the time to appreciate the many different ways that snow melts.

There’s that quick burning sensation when a clump of it falls down his collar and instantly melts against his skin… and yeah, that’s probably his favorite. No matter how numb his body gets, it always burns, and it’s always a shock. It’s a good way to wake up in the morning, he thinks.

Speaking of mornings, there’s the slop bucket- that slush of half-heartedly melted snow they all pretend to use to brush their teeth. It’s ridiculous, is what it is. Sometimes one of the guys will dunk his head in to get a laugh, but otherwise the only one who actually maintains any semblance of hygiene nowadays is Dick, who shaves every morning like the outcome of the war depends on it.

Good ol’ Dick and his useless adherence to his own personal grooming standard. Nixon absentmindedly strokes a hand across his own shaggy beard, barely feeling the coarse bristle beneath his frozen fingers, and it’s a personality thing, really. Like the way Dick keeps his quarters painfully neat, while Nixon’s always end up looking like the aftermath of a hurricane.

As he stomps between the foxholes, he feels the snow on his boots beginning to melt into the cracks in the leather- a slow, maddening, sadistic seep that he can always see coming yet is helpless to do anything about. That’s his least favorite way that snow melts.

Yeah, definitely. Just the _worst_.

“Fuck snow,” he says aloud, and is greeted with a chorus of mumbles. “Hey, boys. How you holding up?”

“Can’t feel my nuts, sir,” says Guarnere, and he pronounces it like “sah”, cackling with masochistic glee. Nixon likes Guarnere, he thinks. He’s all right. Batshit insane, but all right.

“That so.”

“Think they’ve gone off ta enjoy New Years Eve with my folks back home in South Philly. Without me, sir.”

“Sorry to hear you’re missing out on the festivities, Sergeant.”

Nixon crouches down to peer into the foxhole. It’s been hours since sundown, which means light discipline, which means freezing soldiers and cold chow. All things considered, they’re taking it better than anyone could’ve hoped.

“Last day of the year,” he muses. “First time I’ve ever hoped _not_ to see fireworks.”

The shivering figure huddled beside Guarnere snorts. “Got that right,” Malarkey says. “But, hey- d’you think if I wished hard enough, a pretty dame would appear outta nowhere to keep me company? I’ve had enough of this old grouch, his feet stink like the backstreets of Paris.”

“Ya know, I could find _plenty_ of other guys who’d piss their pants with pleasure to share a foxhole with me-“

“Sure, sure.” Malarkey cranes his neck to look up at Nixon upside down. “Anything we can help you with, sir? Or you just makin’ a social call?”

Nixon clears his throat, feeling uncomfortable for some reason. “Uh- yeah. You seen the XO?”

“Win’ers?” Guarnere scratches his head. “Yeah, he came through here ‘bout an hour ago, sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout a prayer meetin’.”

“Thanks.”

His toes are so numb that Nix isn’t even sure they’re still there, and he almost falls over when he gets out of his crouch. He needs some new boots.

**

Georgia in April isn’t bad- in fact, it's downright decent, with a warm sun and a cool breeze bringing with it the smell of freshly mown grass. Nixon gets off the bus with his pack over his shoulder, the weight of it making it hard to walk straight, and takes a moment to gaze out over the neatly manicured sprawl of Fort Benning.

Officer Candidate School. His home for the next three months.

If he were to examine just how he's feeling at this moment, scared shitless wouldn't be quite right. Comes close, though. It helps a little that his fellow candidates look even worse.

“First day of the rest of your miserable lives, gentlemen,” yells a man in a crisp uniform. “Today is the day you begin your service for your country. Today is the day-“

Already zoning the speech out, it hits Nixon like a lightening bolt that he’d forgotten to pack his favorite Zippo lighter.

**

Snow is gathered thick around the foxhole, fluffy and powdery. Good for skiing, Nixon thinks absently. Pushing some aside, he crouches down, knees cracking in protest. “Good evening, gents.”

“Evening.” “Evening, sir.” “Sir.”

“How you holdin’ up?”

Toye looks up at him and scowls. Something about the familiar sight is comforting in the midst of all this upheaval. “Cigarette shortage ain’t doin’ much for moral, sir,” he says, “all due respect.”

Nixon swipes at his beard again. There’s something gravelly in it that scratches at the tender skin of his jaw. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and really means it. “Town’s blown to hell, but there may be a cartful lying around in someone’s barn.”

Luz lets out a bark of laughter. It sounds more like a kitten being squashed to death. “Christ, that’s all good and well, sir, but if our luck was that good we’d be out of this goddamn mess already.”

Nixon slants a look at Luz. While Toye in a bad mood is cozy and familiar, the sound of genuine bitterness in Luz’s voice is jarring. “Not making promises here, Luz, but I meant what I said. I’ll see what I can do.”

Luz looks down at the blanket around him, Toye, and Lipton, then sighs and looks back up. “Yeah. Sorry. Thanks, Cap.”

“We’re doing fine here, sir,” says Lipton. His smile is warm, gentle. “Happy New Years’ Eve.”

“And to you.” Nixon pauses. “Any of you seen the XO?”

“No, sorry.” Lipton really does look truly, genuinely sorry. “Not since this morning.”

“Right. Carry on. Keep those feet dry.”

Toye salutes him sarcastically. “Sure thing, Doc.”

While he’s walking towards the next foxhole, he isn’t looking where he’s going, and so of course he walks straight into a tree branch. It slaps him in the face like a jilted lover, and he curses loudly at the feel of the snow sliding down the neck of his uniform.

He takes it back. He doesn’t have a favorite way that snow melts. It’s all fucking miserable.

**

“I’m Jerry.”

The lumps of meat rolling around his plate can’t _possibly_ be chicken. Can they? The sallow-faced mess officer that had handed him his tray had said they were, but there's no _way_ chicken can get this color of grey without-

“Huh?” Nixon says. “Did you say something?”

Across the table from him, the fresh-faced candidate with the blonde hair and startlingly blue eyes leans forward with a smile. He has the grey I Can’t Believe It’s Not Chicken on his plate as well. Not many choices in the first place. Given the option between either the Fuck Off, No Way That’s Chicken or the How in the Hell am I Supposed to Believe This Sauce Actually Has Real Tomatoes in it Spaghetti, closing your eyes and pointing wouldn’t even be the worst way to-

“I’m Jerry.”

“Huh?” Nixon refocuses on the eager smile a foot from his face, the outstretched hand. “Oh, uh.”

“You’re Lewis, right?”

“Nixon.”

“I-oh, yeah. Nice to meet ya. Where you from, Nix?”

Nixon frowns. “Jersey. And it’s Nixon.”

Jerry smiles again, a big, corn-fed smile that makes Nixon’s teeth ache. “Oh boy, city slicker, huh.”

“Ee-yep.”

Feeling a little confused as to why the kid is talking to him in the first place, Nixon sits and half-listens to Jerry explain just why Middle of Nowhere, Ohio was such a gosh-darned great place to grow up. He’s just about reached the end of his patience when he looks over Jerry’s shoulder and sees…

“Whoa.”

“-and the corn harvest can really just, sorry, what?” Jerry makes a sound like a record scratch in the middle of his sentence, looking helplessly lost, and Nixon doesn’t really even notice because of the boy sitting two tables away from them. The boy backlit by the sunshine streaming in through the entrance to the mess hall, glowing like some spiritual entity while he bites thoughtfully into an apple.

Nixon grabs Jerry’s arm- ignoring his yelp- and draws him in. “I need you to stop talking now,” he tells Jerry seriously, “and start telling me exactly who that guy over there is.”

Jerry follows Nixon’s line of sight and frowns. “You mean Dick?”

“Dick.”

“Dick Winters?”

“Sure. Keep talking.”

**

“Hey, Doc.”

Under the blanket-tent hiding the dim torchlight in the foxhole, Doc Roe looks as serene as always, although the bright red tip of his nose ruins the effect some. He doesn’t smile when he nods back at Nixon, but his eyes are hopeful.

“Evenin’, suh,” he says, “y’wouldn’t happen t’know anything ‘bout new medical supplies, would you, suh?”

Damn. Nixon sighs. “Sorry, Doc. No word that I know of.”

“Yeah. A’ight.” Doc Roe sniffs, rubs at his nose again, making it even redder. “You got somethin’ needs fixin’?”

Spina is snoring gently, snuggled up against a third figure who’s sandwiched in-between them. Nixon squints down, trying to identify him, and replies absently, “No, no. Nothing like that. Just… stopping to check up on things. Happy New Years’ Eve, all that.”

“H’py N’Y,” mumbles the third figure.

Roe is watching Nixon, something gone soft around the corners of his eyes. “I saw ‘im walkin’ towards the eastern flank,” he says quietly. “He had a prayer meetin’ goin’ bout an hour ago, but check third platoon. They should know.”

It doesn’t exactly shock Nixon that Roe sees right through him. He’s always been like that- the quiet one, keeping to himself on the sidelines, observing everything yet admiring nothing. So it doesn’t _shock_ him, per se, but he does take a moment to compose himself before nodding his thanks.

He’s just pulling himself out of the foxhole when the pale face of Babe Heffron emerges from underneath Spina’s arm. Nixon manages to catch the soft way Roe starts to smile before the blanket cover shields them from view again.

**

“I leave you alone for _one_ second, Dick, I swear to God-“

“Oh hey, Nix. Didn’t see you there.”

“Ha-ha. Cures a private’s mysterious blindness, ladies and gentlemen, and then suddenly he himself is blind. You should stick to turning water into wine, you know- handier. Less danger of second-hand shell shock.”

“Handier for you, maybe.”

“Seriously. Dick.”

“It’s just a graze.”

“Just a graze, my perky Jersey ass, Dick! Doc Roe told me he wants you off it for at least a week!”

For some reason, Dick lets Nixon yell at him some more, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. Maybe it's because they both enjoy it, although they both would never admit it. It had been like this back at OTC and all through Camp Toccoa, and Nixon imagines that it will continue to be this way all through the war, as well.

If Dick doesn't manage to get himself shot while being the heroic leader, of course.

“You’re not Captain America, you know,” Nixon mutters, finally running out of steam, out of ways to insult Dick and let him know he's worried at the same time.

“I know,” says Dick, voice quiet. He's staring at Nixon with more weight in his gaze than usual. Maybe it's the after-affect of nearly being _killed_ , Nixon thinks. Maybe he's in shock. What do you do when dealing with shock, again? Nixon has no idea, mind suddenly blank, and struggles for a moment as his mind brings up all sorts of scenarios in which Dick might _die_ because he's too busy being in _shock_ , and-

Dick puts his hand on Nixon’s arm, and his brain quiets.

“Shoot that weapon yet?” Dick asks, voice lighter but eyes still intently fixed on him.

Nixon snorts. “Fat chance. I’m a paper pusher now, haven’t you heard?”

“Be careful with paper cuts. Don’t want you losing a hand to gangrene.”

“Oh, go shoot some Krauts with your laser vision, Captain America.”

“You’re getting your superheroes mixed up there, Nix.”

“Shut up.”

Nixon looks around. They're alone in the abandoned house with the shattered windows, although the shouts from outside are growing closer. He makes up his mind and pulls Dick into a shadowed corner, drawing a surprised noise. “Shut up,” he repeats, quieter this time, face close enough to count the freckles on Dick’s nose. “Just- stop being a goddamn idiot, would you?”

“Yeah,” says Dick, the word leaving his mouth on a deep exhale. “Okay, Nix.”

“I mean it.”

Nixon doesn't mean to do it, doesn't really think about it. It's something he’s been wanting to do since that first time he’d seen Dick in the mess hall at Fort Benning, since that first time they’d spoken a few days later, but he’s never actually thought about doing it for real, not really.

But the thing is, he’s always just _assumed_ that Dick is, well, invincible. Hadn’t even given a second thought to the fact that war is dangerous, that Dick is only human, but now a bullet has been pulled from his leg and he is _not_ infallible. He is flesh, he is bone, he is-

Nixon grabs a fistful of Dick’s uniform and kisses him, a hard press to the lips, before he finishes the thought. He feels the hitch in Dick’s breath more than he hears it, and then Dick grabs the back of his neck so roughly that Nixon sees stars and kisses him back. Just as hard.

The world goes quiet and still. At its axis is just the two of them, just the feel of Dick’s uniform bunched in his hand, material stiff with sweat and dirt. The familiar smell of him, the feel of Dick's breath whoosing out of his nose as he opens his mouth under Nixon’s, the warmth of his lips, and God, _God_ , Nixon can feel his knees buckle when Dick hesitantly swipes his tongue against Nixon's own. He leans into Dick, desperately, hungrily, needing to feel all of him against his body, needing to know that he's here, he's safe, he isn’t going to leave him. Not yet. Dick groans into his mouth, encouraging, withdrawing enough to bite down on Nixon’s lower lip.

Nixon doesn't say _what are we doing_ as the kiss ends and they just stand together for a moment, forehead to forehead. He doesn't need to. They already know.

“If you die,” he says finally, as the sounds of war brought them back to reality, “I’ll kill you, Dick. I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Okay,” whispers Dick. “Okay.”

**

Nixon hears quiet singing before he even reaches the next foxhole. It’s ‘Auld Lang Syne’, although by his watch they’ve still got an hour till midnight. A helmeted head jerks up at the sound of a twig snapping beneath his boots, the sharp sound swallowed almost immediately by the deep hush of the forest.

“Hey, Cap.”

Martin’s face is so pale that it’s giving the snow a run for its money, and the worried face of Bull beside him speaks volumes. Nixon decides not to mention it, just jokes, “Do neither of you own a watch?”

Bull grins around the sodden unlit remains of a cigar. “Just practisin’,” he says, voice smooth and deep despite the tremor of his shoulders. “Gotten a lil’ rusty, if you’ll believe it.”

“Not much occasion for singing around here, huh.”

Martin coughs, then, a deep rattling sound that makes the grin slide from Bull’s face like a full moon disappearing behind a storm cloud.

“Get that blanket up over your heads,” Nixon says. He knows the sound of bronchitis, suffered through bouts of it throughout his youth, and Martin is dangerously toeing the edge. “I’ll have someone bring you a cup of coffee. There’s gotta be someone flouting light discipline around here.”

“Yessir, thank you, sir. Maybe try third platoon,” says Bull. He has a hand rubbing the spot between Martin’s shoulder blades and a face trying not to show too much emotion. Nixon sees it anyway.

“Was heading there anyhow. Speaking of, either of you seen Dick?”

“Heard mention of him feeding first platoon soup. That was a coupla hours ago, though.”

“Thanks.”

The sounds of Martin’s heaving coughs follow him as he pushes forward, pushes east. It’s almost midnight.

**

“One minute left, ladies and gents! Grab your kissin’ partner!”

The tumbler feels mercifully cool against Nixon’s sweaty palm. He already has a headache, and his date has long since disappeared with a scornful look after the tenth dance he’d turned down. His dress uniform is making him itch, the bright lights in the dance hall making him sweat uncomfortably. He just wants to go back to the barracks, away from the people and the music and the gaiety.

Scratch that. It isn’t his dingy rack that he wants to escape to. He wants to go _home_ , and home is a person. Not a place. He leans an elbow on the bar and idly watches Dick Winters twirl his date off the dance floor as the brass band starts a slower song.

Dick looks good, he thinks. Tall and lean, solemn-faced and beautiful- he always did cut a dashing figure in his dress greens. The women around him- with their colorful dresses and beautifully coiffed hair- hang off the arms of their dates while still managing to throw coquettish looks his way and Dick, of course, doesn't notice. Instead, he is smiling down at his beautiful blonde-haired companion in the sparkling red dress, smiles in a way that makes Nixon gulp at his whiskey like it's water, not a pricey blended scotch.

“Okay, folks, we’re closing in on thirty seconds! Everyone got their champagne ready?”

Nixon turns to catch the eye of the bartender, setting his emptied tumbler on the bar counter and tapping it with two fingers. When he turns back, Dick and his companion have disappeared back into the crowd.

“All together, now- ten! Nine! Eight…”

They will go off to war, sooner rather than later. The country is electric with it, joined together in a spirit of nationalistic pride in their boys, and pride in the troops of their ally. Joined together by the knowledge that America and Great Britain, their two great nations, are off to distant lands to fight evil and restore harmony to the world. Countless ships loaded with eager soldiers have crossed the Atlantic with more to come, and in the future lies France. Italy. Germany. They’ll conquer it all, he and Dick. Together.

“Three… Two… One…”

Nixon drains the whole two fingers of Vat 69 as the room explodes into cheers around him.

“Happy New Year, Nix,” says a soft voice in his ear, and Nixon inhales the last drops of whiskey down his windpipe in his surprise. A warm hand falls to the small of his back, holding him steady; as his eyes water at the burn in his throat the hand begins to rub in small, steady circles.

“Dammit, Dick,” Nixon wheezes, “Happy New Year to you too, but don’t sneak up on a guy like that.”

Dick grins at him, so bright and happy and just goddamn glorious that Nixon doesn't even see the woman standing beside him, so focused on the shining of Dick’s eyes that she doesn't even enter his line of sight.

“It’ll be a good one,” says Dick. “We’ll make it a good one.”

He says it quietly, like a secret just between them. Nixon swallows and makes himself smile back.

“Damn straight.”

**

He finds Dick with ten minutes to spare. He’s sitting in an empty foxhole, staring out across No Man’s Land, looking lost in thought.

“Thought we’d lost you to the Germans,” Nixon calls out before sliding unceremoniously into the foxhole beside him. “You’re a hard man to find.”

Dick smiles at him wanly. He looks tired, Nixon thinks. Drained, and so, so tired. “Nix,” he says.

“So this is how you intended to spend the last hour of 1944. Alone, in a hole in the ground that smells like shit.”

Dick sniffs the air. “Isn’t so bad,” he says thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I know. Hyperbole. It’s one of my many talents.”

Even though they’re both freezing to death, Nix still manages to leech some body warmth from Dick by pushing his body against him as closely as physically possible.

“What are you thinking so hard about?”

Dicks lets out a soft laugh, and finally looks away from the uninterrupted white expanse in the distance. “Last year,” he says. “Aldbourne. New Years’ Eve Ball, remember? You got so drunk that you passed out on my rack and I had to sleep in the armchair.”

“As I recall,” Nixon protests, pushing up against him even harder, “you offered your rack to me, like the gentleman you are, and I accepted because I knew you wouldn’t have offered in the first place if you didn’t mean it.”

With an eyebrow raised, Dick looks down at him pointedly. From this angle, Nix can see the beginnings of a reddish-brown shadow on Dick’s jaw. “I remember it very differently. I suppose we’ll just have to agree to disagree on this one.”

“Mmm.”

After a moment, Dick shifts a little, letting Nixon fit more comfortably against his side. They’re not cuddling, not exactly- but even if they technically were, this is dead-ass Bastogne winter. No one would judge them.

“Time is it?”

Nix checks his watch. “I’d say we’ve got maybe two minutes left of the year.”

“Great.”

“And guess what?” Reaching into the folds of his coat, Nix fumbles around a little until he finds what he’s been lugging around with him for the past two hours. “I brought just the thing to celebrate.”

Dick groans as Nix brandishes the bottle of Vat 69, polished to a sheen after many hours under his coat. “Nix, you don’t really expect me to-“

“I know you took a swig of that peasant swill that Guarnere was passing around. C’mon, Dick. It’s New Years’ Eve. Drink with me.”

With a raised eyebrow, Dick says nothing as Nixon struggles to open the cap with fingers that feel like sausages. Then: “You remember the first time we met?”

The bottle finally opens. Nixon takes a long swig, relishing the way his body warms slowly from his esophagus outward. “Like it was yesterday." He pushes the whiskey into Dick’s hands, and Dick cautiously sniffs it, says, “ _Nix_ ,” in a way that’s almost a whine.

“It’ll warm you up. C’mon.”

“That’s a common misconception, you know, since alcohol actually lowers your core body temperature-“

“Just drink the fucking whiskey, Dick.”

He can’t help but laugh at the exaggerated wince on Dick’s face at the first taste. “That’s just- really awful,” Dick says, sputtering. He takes another sip anyway.

“Thatta boy. So, what was that about the time we first met?”

“Well, you know- I didn’t know what to think of you, at first. With your Ivy League vocabulary and your fast talk.”

“But?”

Dick smiles at him, eyes following the bottle up to Nixon’s lips. “Still don’t know what to think of you, most days.”

“But?”

The smile grows, slow and sweet, until Dick is shining the way he had exactly a year ago, under the bright lights in the warm and crowded ballroom. “Well. Guess I don’t know what I’d be without you, Nix.”

Something that isn’t the whiskey warms him, chasing away the bone-deep chill that’s been with him all December. Something he can’t name, refuses to name, but has been with him since that day long ago in the mess hall. Something he sees reflected in Dick’s eyes, now, in the shine of his smile.

A snowflake drifts down onto his face. It melts on impact, cooling the sudden heat on his cheeks. His watch reads 12:03.

“Happy New Year, Dick.”

“Happy New Year, Nix.”

**

Grass tickles his ankles as Nixon sits sprawled out in the sun, still panting slightly from a long and gruesome PT exercise. He could be using this precious free time to shower, maybe stretch out on his bunk and catch a few winks, but he knows this is his chance and he's not about to waste the opportunity. He zeroes in immediately on his target: Winters, his graceful stride standing out even from miles away, heading towards him on his way to the showers.

Nixon leaps up in eager anticipation, then regrets it; he hastily decides to lean up against the wall of the building in what he hopes is a casual and aloof way, and waits. Winters finally looks up from contemplating the ground as he nears, looks straight at Nixon. He cocks his head a little, like he maybe recognizes Nixon but can't place him. Nixon feels his heart speed up again as though he's back in the middle of a five mile run.

As Winters is about to pass him, he drawls, “Goin’ my way?”

Winters smiles in confusion and looks around them. “You talking to me?” he asks.

(Winters has a soft voice. Softer than Nixon would’ve thought for a guy so… _looming_.)

“Yeah, I’m talking to you,” says Nixon, “unless you see some other towering, red-haired, walking freckle in our near vicinity.”

“I don’t… know if you’re trying to pick a fight,” Winters says slowly, “or if this is just your way of making new friends, but…”

“Oh, this is definitely not me picking a fight,” says Nix, sweet and innocent, and pushes out of his casual lean. “I’ve seen you around. Thought I’d introduce myself.”

“I…see.”

“Apparently you’re ruining the grading curve.”

“Didn’t mean to do that.”

“And First Lieutenant Sheldon was overheard saying to Second Lieutenant Grant that you were his first pick for infantry.”

“Well, guess I meant to do _that_.”

Nixon flashes him a smile, mostly teeth. “Impressive," he says, "especially since you appear to have known that already, and yet haven’t started to spread the word around yourself.”

Winters shrugs, a lopsided sort of gesture that makes Nixon’s mouth suddenly dry. “Didn’t see the need for it, I suppose,” Winters says, caution in his voice. “Nice to have impressed you, though, seeing as how you don’t seem the type to be impressed much.”

It draws a laugh out of him, which seems to at first startle and then please Winters. “You got that right.”

“Nice to meet you, then,” Winters grins shyly, and holds out a hand. “I’m Dick Winters.”

Nixon takes his hand. It's warm and dry, a firm handshake, one that sends a thrill up his spine.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”


End file.
